


Our Kind of Crazy

by assylem



Category: DCU, The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cunnilingus, Everything is consensual, Explicit Language, F/M, Masochism, Negan and Harley are crazy, Rough Sex, Sadism, Spanking, Tags May Change, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9254570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assylem/pseuds/assylem
Summary: Let's fall down the rabbit hole of what would happen if Harley Quinn was a part of the Walking Dead universe, and Negan happened upon her (or, rather, she happened upon Negan). Canon point: post season 7A finale.





	1. Savior and the Siren

**Author's Note:**

> Hold onto your butts, it's gonna be a fun ride. A couple things-
> 
> 1) This wouldn't have been at all possible without my amazing offsite co-author, SurrogateSongs@gmail.com, who gives absolutely delightful life to Harley Quinn.
> 
> 2) I've added a fuck counter for your enjoyment. Felt that was worth mentioning.

 

* * *

 

Negan knew they had a problem on their hands after the first supply truck didn't make it back from the Hilltop. At first, he thought it was related to one of the various problems he was already dealing with. Maybe one of the dickholes from the Hilltop decided to make it look like they'd been ambushed just to get their supplies back. A repeat visit to that pissbaby's paradise proved that theory wrong.  
  
The next thought was that maybe there was a group of the dead wandering where they shouldn't be. Maybe they got blindsided. It didn't happen often, but it _had_ happened before. They had pretty good eyes on the area, but some dumbass with a deathwish could have missed something. Finding his trucks _empty_ and his men with their skulls clearly _bashed the fuck in_ proved that theory wrong, too. _Someone_ was stealing his shit. Multiple someones, from the look of it.  
  
He started sending every supply truck out with extra men, as well as adding extra patrols. He redistributed his better trained Saviors throughout the groups so nobody was left unprotected. When the perpetrators kept slipping through his fingers, he started sending out posses until finally, _finally_ , he got the radio call he wanted.  
  
"We got her," the voice came, tired and annoyed. "She fucking killed four of us - but we got her."  
  
_Her._ One person. One _woman_. This was getting _interesting_. If she belonged to any of the groups he already had control over, they were _fucked_ , but he had a feeling that wasn't the case. He'd be seeing the same supplies come up again, and nobody in the groups he already had control over was smart enough. No, this was someone working on her own, killing his Saviors in groups, and they'd only just caught her, _alive_ , something Negan had been _very_ specific about.

'It'd been a long time coming.'  
  
That's the _main_ gist she was getting from the five men it'd taken to actually get her into a pair of handcuffs- actually it'd taken _nine_ , but they were leaving four of them behind in a heap. No use bringing back the dead, especially the one that no longer had much of a face. Motorcycle tires _will_ do that, given enough lift.  
  
It'd been a sweet run while it lasted; Harley found a nice juicy peach that called themselves _Saviors_ three months back, and it'd been a summer of picking off the occasional supply truck and road crew for their goods (and the fun of it). They had the numbers, but she had a fifteen years of combined criminal empire building and psychological warfare under her belt _before_ the apocalypse- plus, she was by herself. People were hard to coordinate in chaos; she'd learned that when Puddin' just _completely_ lost it and dove into a crowd of Dead thinking they'd help him crowd-surf. In the time after that, Harley had come to learn how much of a fool he really was.  
  
She was just as fucked up, but at least she was still _alive_. And apparently had been a big-ass thorn in these guys' sides all season.  
  
Now her number'd come up, and instead of kill her on the spot ( _DUMB_ move, she'd been telling them until they threw some duct tape over her mouth. DUMB.) they had her cuffed and surrounded in the back of a repurposed U-Haul. Goodnight waited on the shoulder of one pizza-faced fuck with greasy blond hair like a prize. She was eyeing him the whole ride back to wherever all the supplies (the ones she didn't get her hands on) had been going.  
  
When the truck came rolling through the gates of the Sanctuary, Negan was waiting for it, dressed to the Nines (which in his case, meant _all_ of his favorite accessories) with Lucille resting at his shoulder. There was a buzz about the yard: news had spread quickly, and everyone standing around wanted to see who would be coming out of the back of the truck. One of his Saviors came up and opened the back of the truck for him, and a couple of the men in the back jumped out. Two of them grabbed their prize under each arm, dragging her out from the back.

"Oh, now _this_ just got a _whole_ lot more fucking interesting," he said, grinning as she got pulled into the light, and he got a real _look_ at her. She was _not_ what he'd been expecting.

The weather hadn't _quite_ started to turn too bad, so she was still rocking her summer clothes; torn tights tied garter-style under a pair of _high_ cut-offs for protection and plenty of movement and bathroom options. Heavy military boots with random inch-long spikes in the toes and heels, a leather half-jacket painted her two favorite colors, and what she liked to call her 'battle corset'- fashioned out of a dead soldier's Kevlar with faded glitter-laces she'd found two years ago. Her hair was a little loose from the fight, but still in messy-bun pigtails of bone white and just a hint of blue and pink at the ends- and of course, the splash of tattoos, bruises, and fresh blood.  
  
Dwight had her gun belt and massive chrome-plated magnum (faded and scuffed) around his left forearm, the painted and blood stained bat in his right as he hopped out of the passenger seat. The two goons who 'escorted' her out from the truck happily dropped her, _hard_ , in front of the Head Hancho- Harley didn't have to be told to know that's who she'd be seeing first. Maybe last, too. _Either way_ , she thought, looking up from her knees and small dust cloud they made, _not that bad a sight._  
  
"Mmm Mmm mmm mmm m mm _MMMMmmmmm!_ " she 'spoke' under the duct tape, her eyes wired and focused, but sill a bit wild. Then she clearly huffed through a slightly bloody nose, looked up at Dwight's pizza face, and started to clearly laugh.

Negan looked down at her with excited curiosity, Lucille extended out and tucked just under her chin so he could get a better look. Her outfit, her hair, even her fucking _weapons_ made her look like she was a character right out of a comic book. People had gotten creative since the world went to shit, but she was something else. Add the fact that he could just tell she was hot as _Hell_ , even with the bloody nose and duct tape, and he went from being pissed off to being fucking _giddy_. She'd still have some kind of punishment, he'd make sure of that, but for now... he was just fascinated.  
  
He saw where her eyes went when she laughed, and he grinned and laughed, too. "What, you laughin' at ol' Dwighty Boy over there?" he asked, and walked over to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and giving him a firm squeeze. If Dwight was bothered by any of it, he didn't let it show. "It's not fucking polite to laugh at people who got their fucking faces _ironed_." Then he saw the weapons Dwight was holding, and his eyes lit up.  
  
"Well holy fucking _shit_ ," he said, and he took the baseball bat, holding it with a palpable amount of respect as he turned it in his free hand. "Look at _this_! God _damn_ you just got _way_ fucking hotter." He read the poem on the handle, and chuckled, low and throaty. " _Goodnight_ ," he read, and looked down at her, a new glint in his eyes. She was getting more and more interesting by the second. "Goodnight, meet Lucille. It's not every day Lucille gets to make a new fucking friend." He raised Lucille again for a moment, before handing Goodnight back to Dwight and walking over to crouch right in front of her.

Contrary to the little _war_ that left him four men down two hours earlier, Harley didn't offer a lick of resistance against the barbed wire monstrosity he used to nudge up her chin. She even reined in her giggling as he went on- which took some real _effort_ , and it showed. Okay, so maybe it wasn't all that appropriate to laugh at the poor guy, now that she knew what happened, but it wasn't out of fear. More like she'd been caught laughing at a dirty joke in church. She cleared her throat and 'centered' herself with a little wiggle to show _yes_ she could behave (when she wanted), and gave little hums and squeaks of haughty pride as he examined Goodnight. Why _yes_ , that is her work and _yes_ , she is fucking hot, thankyouverymuch.  
  
"So, I know what _that_ beautiful bitch's name is," he said, and reached out, yanking the duct tape off of her mouth in one swift motion. "What the fuck is _your_ name?"  
  
Through the whole encounter, random noises and occasional snorts of laughter, her eyes _never_ left the Big Kahuna in the leather jacket. The hot, lingering sting left behind by the tape just barely contained an impulse to slam her forehead into his _just_ because he was so close. Good thing pain had a way of keeping her alive. She was _crazy_ , not stupid.  
  
"Harley-!" she chirped with a feral grin, which broke only because she needed to stretch her jaw a minute; the tape had held it still too long after being punched, and the loud _pop_ from the joint was satisfying. She huffed in relief, then went back to grinning. "Nice ta meet'cha! What's yours?"

"Harley," Negan let her name roll over his tongue in a purr, watching her with the same level of vibrant fascination and curiosity. "My name is Negan." He stood back up, then, using Lucille to push himself up off the ground.  
  
"I find myself in a big fucking predicament, Harley," he said, and started pacing slowly, swinging Lucille lazily around. Intimidation didn't really seem like it would work well with her, but he wasn't putting on a show. The pacing helped his thought process. "See, you killed a _lot_ of my people. And you stole a _lot_ of my shit. A lot of my _good_ shit. And that just doesn't fucking fly. Here I was expecting half a dozen assholes swinging their dicks around, but then _you_ come along-" He paused in his pacing, and turned to point at her with Lucille. "And just shock the living _Hell_ outta me! 'Cause you've only been here two fucking seconds, and I can already _tell_ , it's just been you the _whole_ fucking time!" The fact that she'd taken out four of his men _today_ told him that much.

He paced like a tiger, swinging that Beast like a tail, and Harley knew from experience the look of an animal caught between the thrill of the hunt, the desire to kill, and the driving need to fuck the shit out of something. _Negan_ had eyes that mixed all three in _equal_ parts, and for a moment she completely phased out on what he was saying, just to enjoy the _show_.  
  
"Let me make one thing perfectly fucking clear," he said, and he was standing in front of her again, but he didn't crouch this time. Lucille tucked herself up underneath Harley's chin again, so he could look her in the eyes."You're _mine_ now.”

 _That_ snapped Harley back into reality, and Death himself couldn't turn her grin upside down. This guy was _the best_ kind of entertainment, and she'd caught his absolute, undivided attention. That alone would be worth whatever circus she'd have to perform through to have _that_ wrapped around her finger.

“There is no fucking _doubt_ about that. But," Negan paused, and leaned back a bit, tilting his head down at her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I just don't know what the fuck to do with you yet. So I'm _thinking_ , because you killed... how many Saviors, Dwight?"  
  
"Seventeen," Dwight said, immediately. "Plus the four today."

 _Dwight_. So that was Pizza Face's name; Harley giggled again when Negan made him speak like a trained seal, catching most of the sound behind purposely pressed lips in order to keep her attention on the Main Event.  
  
Negan raised an eyebrow, and whistled, then looked down at Harley. " _Twenty-fucking-one_ of my Saviors. God _damn_." He didn't know if he was more pissed off or impressed. No, he _did_ know, he knew _exactly_ how the fuck he felt about it. "I can't let that shit go unpunished. _Sooo..._ " He paused for a moment, eyes squinting slightly as he sucked at his lower lip and tapped a finger to his chin. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and he snapped. "I know! I'm gonna stick you in a box so you can't go fucking around with anything else while I figure out what the fuck I'm gonna do with you!" He clapped his hands together, and two of his Saviors grabbed Harley under each arm again, yanking her to her feet. "Don't worry. You'll be _nice_ and fucking cozy."

She already knew he wasn't going to kill her- or have her killed. That much was written all over his face. Whatever fuck-else he could do or have done to her couldn't possibly be anything she hadn't already danced with. Still, she wasn't so thrilled with the idea about being stuck in a _box_.  
  
“ _Hey_ heyheyhey! _Wait_ a sec, fellas-" she chirped at her handsy escorts, her eyes wild missiles seeking Negan's face to make _absolutely_ sure he was listening. Even cuffed behind her back, her hands still gestured along. "Do'ya think you could wash that for me-" she nodded toward Goodnight as she was marched away. "Ya know- old blood ain't too good for the paint job..."

Negan watched Harley go with a grin, and didn't respond to her request. Once she'd been carried off, he took Goodnight, and the rest of her weapons belt, from Dwight. Goodnight was _special_ , and the magnum she had was just too fucking pretty to let someone else walk off with.  
  
"What're you gonna do with her?" Dwight asked, equal parts genuine curiosity and eagerness. He was expecting something harsh, considering the amount of people she'd killed, and supplies she'd taken. Negan just chuckled as he looked Goodnight over, examining the blood on the end of it.  
  
"I don't fucking know yet, Dwighty Boy," he said, his tone just dripping with excitement. "She's a _special_ one, isn't she?" He wiggled his eyebrows and, without waiting for a response, headed back into the Sanctuary.  
  
What _was_ he going to do with her? He thought about it while he cleaned Goodnight, wiping every bit of blood and bone off that he could find. Killing twenty-one people wasn't something he could let slide, but he wasn't going to kill her. She was way too valuable, and he just _couldn't_. Killing her would feel like killing off an endangered species. If she'd been putting up a fight with him, that would make things easier. He'd just have to break her, and that would be enough punishment on its own. So far, though, she'd been pretty good for him – Hell, she'd even been _cheerful_ – so he had to get creative.  
  
He decided to start by giving her some time in the box, _j_ _ust_ to see what would happen. In the mean time, he had more important things to do, like fuck the shit out of at _least_ two of his wives, because Harley just made him all _kinds_ of riled up.  
  
It became clear fairly quickly that the box wasn't going to bother her much. The show tunes started not ten minutes after they put her in there, and her voice just _carried_ , and didn't stop. After trying, repeatedly, to get her to stop by pounding on her door, or yelling all manners of threats and insults at her, eventually the annoyed, over cocky guard went in to shut her up himself. That ended in him on the ground, his head locked in the tight grip of her legs, and it wasn't until another guard came in and gave her head a good _whack_ with the butt of his rifle that she finally stopped.

When Negan got news of the trouble his newest toy was already making, he just laughed. "Well one of you dumbasses decided to go in there with her. That's not my fucking problem," was his response, along with telling them not to fucking go in there again, _duh_. But, he also decided to address his _Harley_ problem sooner rather than later.

They say an old police tactic to pick out the guilty party in a handful of suspects is to put them in lockup overnight and see which one of them fell asleep first. Psychologically, to the _innocent_ , being trapped in a cage for something they did not do (or had minimal part in) was simply too much to let them rest. They paced, bargained, got angry, sometimes just sat and cried, but usually they never actually slept. The _guilty_ ones typically slept like fucking babies.  
  
After Harley's lights were knocked out, she enjoyed some of the most restful sleep she'd had in quite a while. Sure, it wasn't that comfortable, cuffed at the back and sprawled on a cement floor, but she'd had a _lot_ worse. Plus, the four walls that were her prison were also her protection. There would be no Geeks breaking in, not with the armed detail at the door, and no way would anyone fuck with her beyond the uncultured rat that tried to stop her singing. She was more mad that he was interrupting her personal rendition of Anything Goes than the threats of dismemberment. Hours of dark safety in that cell passed as she slept off the concussion before gnawing thirst and screaming shoulder joints eventually woke her up.  
  
It was the next morning when he went to the box to see her himself. She'd been there since getting to the Sanctuary the afternoon before, and aside from the one moron who tried to get her to stop singing, she'd been left alone. Negan could hear the singing from down the hallway, something he didn't recognize (she was halfway through South Pacific), and there was an amused smile on his face when he unlocked the door and pushed it open. The singing didn't stop until her eyes had adjusted enough to see who it was, and when it did, he grinned down at her.  
  
"Well, _hell-ohhh_ , Sunshine."

"Hiya Pumpkin," she drolled back at him, crusted blood still smeared under her nose and a ribbon of fresher stuff stretching down from her eyebrow. Her voice was a little hoarse, a little softer and squeaked at the vowels from her parched throat, but her eyes hadn't lost any intensity. "You sleep good?"

Oh, Negan _definitely_ already liked her. Despite that she'd been left in a box with no food, no water, and she'd gotten knocked the fuck around, she was still smiling. And he already had a _nickname_ , one that he didn't even hate that much. No, everything that came from Harley was just amusing as shit.  
  
"I did, _thank_ you for asking," he said, leaning against the doorframe as he looked down at her. Even with the dried blood, she was a fucking sight, gorgeous and crazy and _oozing_ energy. She was _something_.  
  
"I heard _you_ slept like a fucking baby," he continued, with a smirk and a tone that told her he knew _exactly_ what trouble she'd already caused him while she was there. Not that it was much trouble. And besides, he'd already decided it was his guards' fault. They knew how crazy she was, why the _fuck_ did they go in there with her? "Now tell me something - are you gonna be that much of a pain in the fucking ass to _everyone_ in here? Or was that just because those fuckheads interrupted your solo?" His tone took on a more serious note. He wanted to know just how much of a _problem_ she was going to make of herself.

She could see the amusement in his face and recognized it immediately for what it was: the door that'd been opened a _teeny_ crack yesterday (or whatever the hell day it was, hard to keep track in the Box) now had her foot wedged firmly in place. He liked her the same way she liked him. If she played her cards right, she might not just survive the day, but maybe have a good shot at a _much_ better spot at the new post-apocalyptic table. One she'd already decided on the instant he told her she was _his_ now.  
  
Harley switched on the charm. Not that it was a big change from the norm.  
  
"I was just mindin' my own business. Nobody appreciates Broadway anymore," she smirked in a way that could also be a puppy-pout, as obvious as it was void of warmth.

Negan pouted right back at her, and gave a sympathetic sigh. "Oh, I _know_. Those uncultured fuckwads," he said, and tutted his tongue with a shake of his head. She hadn't given _him_ any problems yet, and that said something.  
  
"So. Here's the deal," he started, and pushed the door open further, walking in and crouching down in front of her, not _quite_ as close as he had the day before. Something told him she wouldn't be giving him any issues, but he had _some_ sense of self-preservation. " _I_ want _you_ to work for me. You _owe_ me after you killed so fucking _many_ of my people, and stole so fucking _much_ my shit." He grinned, then, and tweaked an eyebrow at her. "And to be completely fucking honest, I'd really love to fuck the shit out of you." He followed that with a lick and a bite of his lower lip, and another wiggle of his eyebrows. "The last part is _completely_ fucking optional, _but_ I think it's a pretty fucking _great_ option."  
  
He opened his hands, as if to lay his cards out on the table, and raised an eyebrow at her. "So?"

And there it was; that foot-sized gap she had in the proverbial door swung open wide as Negan's grin- _and_ , subsequently, Harley's grin to match. She smiled bright and bushy-tailed as her slightly bruised and bloodied face could, a hoarse giggle bubbling up from her throat.  
  
"Well aren't you a _gentleman_ ," she said with _zero_ sarcastic inflection. He may as well have kissed her hand and gave her his coat. "Ya _know_ , ya could'a just told me all'a this yesterday-" she went on cheerfully, then pulled it back a notch, clearing her throat. As if she _just_ remembered.  
  
"Would ya mind if I grabbed a bottle'a water first?" She leaned a bit over her crossed legs, her voice skirting the 'secret' range. "I _might_ be a little dehydrated. Chafing really kills the mood."

Negan's face just fucking _lit up_ , because hell fucking _yeah_ , he just scored a woman who blew _all_ of his wives, and probably _all_ of his Saviors, out of the fucking water. His Saviors were going to go _crazy_ , and he knew it. They wouldn't be happy that someone who'd killed their friends and family was going to be hanging around and working with all of them. That's where the _fun_ part came in.  
  
"Hold your fuckin' horses, we're not going straight to bumpin' uglies," he said, and chuckled as he stood back up again. "'Cause here's the thing. I think you're gonna be a fan-fucking- _tastic_ addition to my Saviors. _But_ , you still killed twenty-one of my people. And for that, I gotta put you through the ringer."  
  
He went back over to the door, then, and paused in the doorway to look at her. "You just sit tight, and someone will come get your pretty little ass in a little bit. If you make it, you can have all the food and water and whatever-the-fuck you want." He grinned, and winked at her, before he shut the door again.

Of _course_ there was a catch. She'd known there would be, but heavy thoughts like that tended to hide behind everything else bouncing around in her head, at least until something like _survival_ shoved them up to the front burner. Harley looked briefly disappointed, but only on the surface. Somewhere in the back of her mind, where the tattered, shredded edges where her consciousness and demons mingled in shadow, she was preparing herself for whatever was coming her way. On the outside, she pressed her lips together and gave him a single, curt nod as he headed out. "Whatever you gotta do, Pumpkin." If her hands were free, she would've saluted. Five minutes after he left, a slightly hoarse and sharp-pitched cover of _Bali Hai_ echoed through the dark.  
  
She'd gotten through all of South Pacific, Annie, and was halfway through Oklahoma when the latch on the box door finally clicked open. Good thing, too- Harley was running out of spit, and she'd been rotating positions every song to keep from losing any limbs to lack of blood flow. She was _not_ particularly happy to see Negan hadn't been the one to collect her, and even less enthusiastic about the moldy smelling burlap bag that was shoved over her head. The strong-armed fellas that were her escort weren't exactly chatty cathy's either. Not a single question of hers got answered as they marched her down a hallway and a few sets of stairs- they didn't even laugh at her jokes, just squeezed her arms a little extra hard.  
  
Harley knew they'd gone from inside to out, not by the smell (because she probably wouldn't get the wet-hay smell out of her nose for days) but by the sound. There was a _lot_ of people around, and the low roar of many angry conversations didn't echo off any walls. They lead her several steps through packed dirt and gravel until they put the brakes on hard. Harley had stopped talking now, because _obviously_ her audience wasn't participating, plus she thought she heard something familiar and _bad_ under the crowd. Hisses and growls that definitely were _not_ part of the peanut gallery. Maybe she wasn't absolutely positive, but as soon as she felt the handcuffs being unlocked and the squeal of a metal gate being pulled open, she had a fairly good idea of what Negan's _ringer_ was going to entail.  
  
She found out when her hands were free, and a hard shove to the middle of her back sent her forward three or four steps; Harley yanked the bag from her head as the gate slammed shut behind her, locking her into small parking lot sized enclosure _full_ of Walking Dead.

Negan was practically _giddy_ with excitement, perched at the top of a guard post at the corner of the yard. Dwight stood with him, along with a couple of other Saviors, but the other guard posts, and the perimeter around the yard were _packed_ with people. Anyone who didn't have something more important to do was out in the yard to watch. Hell, even some people who _did_ have something more important to do had shown up, and they'd deal with the consequences later. This was going to be a _show_.  
  
Inside the yard, there were a few dozen of the dead, wandering slowly towards the sound of the creaking gate, and the smell of _fresh meat_ that wafted through the air when Harley was shoved in. There were some impaled on pipes and poles throughout the yard as well, thrashing and kicking and spitting. At the far corner of the yard from Harley, Goodnight was sitting safely, sparkling clean, on a block of concrete, waiting for Harley to come get her.  
  
"Holy _fuckballs_ , Dwight, I'm so fucking excited I could fucking shit myself," Negan said, and he was grinning, hands balls into excited fists that bounced on the rails around the guard post.  
  
"You think she's gonna make it out?" Dwight asked, glancing down at Harley in the mass of the Dead walking around the lot.  
  
"Dwight my boy, I think we're about to watch the closest fucking thing to porn that we got here anymore," Negan said, and clapped his hands together as he looked back down at the yard again.

Down in the yard, the survival center of Harley's brain kicked on like a generator. The gasoline of adrenaline coursed through her veins, lighting every synapse like a fucking Christmas tree. With no weapons, her hands clenched and shook, but she didn't have much time to improvise. The first handful of fuckers were already closing in.  
  
The crowd noise swelled like a wave as her hands shot to her belt and ripped it from the loops.  
  
At a dead-run in three steps, Harley looped both ends around both hands and shoved the leather into the teeth of the closest Corpse and used her momentum to jump-push around it on the chain link fence. The belt twisted around it's rotten head; she gave it a quick yank from behind, snapping the neck nearly in two. The corpse dropped in a heap to the ground, still snapping, but completely immobile. Another lunged at her from the side- she ducked, looped the belt around and snapped _it's_ neck the same way. The next was still a few feet away, but the commotion was drawing the crowd to the buffet. Harley knew she couldn't stop, couldn't misstep.  
  
But if she did, she sure had a happy audience, right?

From the second she was thrown in, Harley became the most entertaining thing Negan had watched in a _long_ fucking time. She moved with a confidence and a swiftness that wasn't like anything Negan had ever seen. He had some good fighters, sharp-shooters and people who were good in hand-to-hand combat, some veterans and ex-cops, but nothing like _Harley._ What she was doing was practically acrobatic.  
  
She took a running start, launched off a hunk of broken concrete and close-lined the corpse with the belt hard enough to knock it flat on its back, where she buried her boot-spike right in its face. The crunch was satisfying enough to put a feral grin on Harley's face- when it wasn't twisted into the seriousness of effort.

A group was closing in; she pushed off the dead one's face and cartwheel-backflipped into the closest, landing _square_ on its now-caved in face with a healthy 'twist' of her boot to grind in the gunk. That brought her close enough to the edge of a large gerter jutting out at an angle from a hunk of concrete a little taller than a man. She shot up the side of it with practiced balance, right on the outstretched fingers of a group that had been getting too close. At the top, she could catch her breath for a few hard heartbeats, but not for long. Each second she waited, the larger the crowd of Dead gathered beneath her... Already it was two deep, and gathering more.  
  
Negan clapped when she made it to the top of her temporary lookout point. Harley did half of it with a fucking _grin_ on her face. She was _ecstatic_ bashing in skulls and putting on a show good enough to get the crowd around her hooting and hollering.  
  
"Look at her fucking _go_!" he said, and laughed, clapping a hand on Dwight's shoulder. Dwight followed with a clap of his own, much to Negan's approval, because he was right: it was a fucking _show_.

Harley took the few precious seconds she had and the high vantage to survey the meatgrinder she needed to survive. Her eyes darted over each and every piece of broken building, trying to see if it'd be worth trying to work some kind of metal free for a weapon- that's when she spotted her.  
  
_Goodnight_ , sitting pretty on the block of pavement after the next, twenty feet away. She had six Geeks to get through to get to her, but if she _could_...  
  
She had the plan of attack on the next breath. Harley ran down the length of the ledge she was perched on, hitting the very end with a hard leap toward the pipe outstretched from the top of the next piece of building. She grabbed it and swung her body up, catching one corpse in the head with her boot in a spray of black and red. Her gymnast moves hoisted her belly up to the bar, then a foot, then the rest of her was running down the ledge of _that_ piece of concrete to the five-foot jump at the end. She left the crowd of Geeks a good distance behind her by the time she reached her weapon. She even had time to re-loop her belt and buckle it- but not before giving the _live_ crowd at the fence behind her a good two-second wiggle-butt Moon of victory.  
  
Because now that she had Goodnight, she was having _fun_.

“Oh, here we fucking _go_ ,” Negan said, and grinned. _That was it_.  
  
The rest of the carnage went quick, and went bloody. Harley went from being hunted and stalked to a lethal whirlwind of wood and viscera. Each corpse only took one good hit to knock down, when she either spiked it with her boots or bashed its brain in with a second (or third) whack. It took three solid minutes of brutality, but eventually the last Geek stopped moving. Harley was left in the middle, panting so hard she was practically growling, and absolutely _covered_ in blood.

Everyone watching was yelling and cheering, stomping their feet and clapping their hands, but Negan didn't hear any of it. He was _enamored_ , leaning over the guard rail and watching as Harley bashed in skull after skull, working her way slowly through the mass of the dead like it was no big fucking deal.  
  
By the time she was done, the crowd was _wild_. They never got entertainment like _that_. Negan came down from his guard post, all smiles and swagger and there might as hell have been hearts in his eyes because holy _shit_ , he was in love.  
  
" _Harley_!" he said, and his voice was dripping as heavily with _want a_ s she was with blood. He unlocked the gate to the yard and yanked it open, "Holy fucking _shit_ balls, that was the hottest _and_ the most badass fucking thing I have seen in a _long_ fucking time. You have impressed the _shit_ outta me." He smirked as he approached her, and the noise around the yard continued. "I don't think I've ever been this turned on in my fucking _life_."

The thick coat of rancid blood that clung to almost every square inch of Harley's skin crawled sluggishly with gravity- slow motion, like everything around her, wading through a fugue of homicidal adrenaline. _Everything_ , from the crowd of seething, frothing humanity to her own heartbeat, pounding like a broken sub in her chest. Standing in the bulls-eye center of her own little mountain of broken corpses, her _own_ post-apocalyptic goddess of violence with missiles for eyes looking for anything that that moved to destroy... her crosshairs centered on the nearest live target.  
  
If he had been _too_ close, or made any aggressive twitch in her direction, she may have caved his head in next. As it was, his caution gave Harley's rage a much-needed cool-off period.

Watching her was like watching his _wettest_ wet dream come to life in front of his eyes. Harley was _perfect_. The months of fucking his crew over proved she was smart and dangerous, but bringing her here had proven she was straight-up _homicidal_. Negan could see a spark in her eyes that he'd seen in his own. It was what made him keep a good ten feet between the two of them. More than one Savior had gotten their head caved in because they got too close too quickly, and Harley looked like she was ready to keep going.  
  
Eventually the roar of the crowd and Negan's praise-heavy words melted into the Red behind her eyes; the tension was still wired into every muscle, but breath by breath, lucidity regained control- _relatively_ speaking. Harley slowly turned to survey her adoring, blood-thirsty audience; she lifted Goodnight at her shoulder, supported by both hands like a sawed-off shotgun, aimed, 'cocked' and 'fired' at random bursts into the crowd.  
  
_Negan_ very deliberately got the last 'shot', which she made a show of, complete with blood-dripping grin.  
  
When she fired at him, he put his hands to his chest, and stumbled back a couple of paces, feigning as if he'd been shot, before he started laughing.

The way Negan played along with her (somewhat real) pantomime was the catalyst. Before too long, the dangerous rigidity to Harley's posture rounded off completely; the crowd was just a crowd, the corpses around her stank, and her joints quivered as the full-charge of adrenaline slowed to a trickle, leaving behind exhaustion, hunger, and a thirst that was hard to ignore.  
  
But she was still smiling. Harley was _always_ smiling. It's how she stayed alive.  
  
"Well, I don't know about everybody else, but _I_ think Harley just earned her fucking spot here," he announced, to the approval of the crowd. There would be people who were unhappy with it, he knew there were, but for now, _everyone_ was smart enough to cheer.  
  
"You just became my new fucking person," he said, and smiled at Harley as he extended a hand to her, though he still hadn't come closer. She'd come when she was ready. "You ready to come get cleaned up, Sunshine?"  
  
Dropping her arm to swing Goodnight lazily at her side, she side-stepped and stomped dead bodies with a swagger that intentionally mimicked his own. _Damn_ _ **right**_ she earned her spot. After _this_ , she was ready for a fucking _spa day_ , and everything in Negan's eyes said he was ready and willing to give it to her. Men were so _easy_. No matter what you did, just kill a few dozen monsters and show a little ass, and everything was A-Okay.  
  
She set her bloody hand in his and gripped it hard, almost _yanking_ them together; blood from her chest transferred to his, also from her chin to his salt-and-pepper beard; she was _that close_ , sharing the same breathing space, grinning like Kali herself.  
  
"I'll take a champagne and milk bath," she purred and growled at the same time, just for the two of them. "With chocolate dipped strawberries, a pepperoni pizza, and you suckin' on my feet."

Negan laughed, and wrapped his arm _tight_ around Harley's waist. Her voice dripped like honey, sticky sweet and rich, and it made him all fucking _tingly_ inside.  
  
"Harley, you can have anything you fucking want," he said, his voice gravelly and low. Then he reached his free hand up, wiped away any blood from her mouth, and gave her a kiss, quick and dirty and just because he could. When he pulled back, it was with a grin, and a wink. "Well... _almost_ anything."  
  
He laughed again, and gave her waist a firm squeeze, before leading out of the yard, steering her back into the Sanctuary to introduce his newest prize to his kingdom.

 


	2. Show Me Your Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negan and Harley have their first meal together, followed by the rest of Harley's punishment for killing twenty-one of his men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your butts, it's gonna be a fuuun ride. (Seriously, get ready.) 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented, given kudos, bookmarked, etc. We appreciate it so, so much, and we're so glad you guys love these two as much as we do!
> 
> You guys ready for it to start heating up? We went from 0 to 100 real fucking quick.
> 
> As always, this wouldn't have been at all possible without my amazing offsite co-author, SurrogateSongs@gmail.com, who gives absolutely delightful life to Harley Quinn.

 

* * *

 

Hot water was something of the past, unless you had the time and resources to heat up a batch enough for actually washing. Harley had her own set-up in her hide-out up north, but it wasn't _anything_ like the gravity-shower she'd found herself in after the blood bath. The water was tepid, not quite warm, but it wasn't cold, and she spent a good half-hour under it, imagining the flow was one of the obscenely expensive waterfall showers back at the Ritz rather than rain collected in a cistern somewhere on the roof- of which she drank _plenty_ to kill the forest fire in her throat. Afterwards, Harley could tell she was in there for _just a tad_ longer than most people got the pleasure, just by the look on her new escorts sour face.

 _Rio_ , or whatever the hell her name was- Harley didn't bother remembering, her brain was too fried by clean skin and lack of food. The _Harem_ mulling about like nervous cows in Gucci dresses in Negan's penthouse were no more welcoming. Maybe because she was given her pick of _their stuff_. That had something to do with it. No matter how friendly she was or how much she tried to initiate some _totally_ genuine girl-talk, they looked at her like she was a rabid honey-badger going through their clothes and make-up.

If Negan could tell just how unhappy some of his Saviors were because of the newest addition to his humble abode, he didn't let it show. To his face, it was 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir', and nobody batted an eyelash when he said Harley could take as _long_ a shower as she wanted, and take whatever clothes she saw fit. But out of sight, his Saviors were _not_ happy about the water she got to use, and his wives were _pissed_ that someone was touching their stuff.

But it _wasn't_ their stuff, and it _wasn't_ his Saviors' water. It was _his_ , and he got to do whatever the fuck he wanted with it. Right now, he wanted his pretty new little psychopath to get as squeaky clean and pretty as she wanted.  
  
While she washed up, he got a proper meal ready for the two of them. Venison steaks with potatoes, carrots, and onions, with drinking options including water, wine, and since he'd _just_ gotten a full case of it, Scotch for when they were done.  
  
Harley picked herself out some of the _nicest_ cashmere and silk she'd seen in _years_ since soft pretty things hadn't exactly been built to survive the outside- she figured (rightly) her bloodied things were being washed and cared for, and she wasn't fighting anymore deadheads for a while. Once she was dressed, Rio motioned toward a small hallway that lead to the Suite. At the end of it, through a set of _way_ more ornate doors than she would've expected for a refurbished factory building, was a proper _parlor_ , the smell of _cooked meat_ , and a grinning _king_.

His grin was firmly in place when she came through the doors to his Suite, and he stood up from his seat at his table. "I got all this fucking food here for you, but I just wanna eat you _up_ ," he said, whistling as he gave her an appreciative look up and down. There was nobody else in the Suite with them, and he waved the guards at the door out. He wanted his privacy. Ever the gentleman, he pulled Harley's chair out for her. "I didn't think it was even fucking possible, but somehow you're even _more_ goddamn gorgeous than you were before."

He wasn't the only one that looked impressed. Harley literally could _not_ remember the last time a guy pulled a chair out for her- not counting the times she was actually handcuffed or in a straight jacket, and the conversation wasn't exactly friendly.

"Ya like it?" she ground out a growly chuckle at his praise, giving her classy white summer dress and baby-soft cardigan a model twirl, just _because_. "It's like a regular Coco Chanel's downstairs, complete with angry sales ladies with Resting Bitch Face," she added, happily taking the seat.

Negan snorted. He could only imagine how enthusiastic his wives were watching Harley prance around and dig through their shit. Not that any of them had any real reason or right to complain. _They_ weren't the ones who'd gone out and collected all of that nice clothing. Harley had already proven to be more useful ( _and_ way hotter) than most of them, and she'd only been there a day.

She _wanted_ to tear that steak apart, _fuck_ the necessity of breathing, but this place, this _dinner_ she'd found herself in? She felt like a Queen in a Tower, and Harley's fantasy life had been _severely_ neglected as of late. After the massacre in the yard, honestly Harley was ready to yank her half-crazed host into the shower with her and tear _him_ apart- in the biblical sense- but being Wined and Dined was more than just as satisfying. It catered to dangerous parts of her that she doubted Negan even knew about yet- and she was _not_ giving this up. No fucking way.

So she took her time, sat proper-classy, and started with that big glass of wine.

"I don't know _why_ they've all got such big, fat sticks shoved up their asses, but-" he shrugged, and pushed Harley's chair in for her. "They'll get the fuck over it." Smiling, he went and took the seat across from her, sitting back and picking up his own glass of wine, taking a long, slow drink. While it wasn't usually his drink of choice, this felt like a _wine_ sort of occasion.  
  
"So, Harley," he said, and started cutting up his steak. "I'm not saying this to be a sexist asshole or anything, I'm being completely fucking serious, okay? How the fuck does a pretty thing like you survive out there? And not just _survive_ , but fucking _thrive_ and kill the _shit_ out of twenty-one people, every single fucking one of them armed." He wasn't even mad about that anymore. Sure, losing that many people wasn't _good_ , but he was more impressed than anything, now. "I mean, _shit_ , is this what love at first sight feels like? 'Cause I think I'm pretty fucking close."

Harley could only drink half her wine and shrug one tattooed shoulder, which lost a bit of sweater because the cardigan was a size and a half too big. She'd paid semi close attention to the faces of those women; they were horrified at her presence, but not particularly _scared_ , not overall. Maybe coerced; many had the distant look of making the best out of a bad situation. She wondered how many of them considered Negan the _bad_ , but in the end? She didn't care. She'd been too hungry; maybe later they'd actually talk to her.

Around a bite of cooked carrot, she smiled at him like he'd complimented a piece of art she'd made or her singing. " _Aww_ , thanks Pumpkin- ya know, that's really fuckin' sweet of you t'say," she practically cooed, flashing teeth in her grin before it closed around her wine glass. All the while, her eyes were on his face, maniacal laughter in her head that screamed _**That's**_ _how you do it._  
  
Men were easy. The Dead were easier. And it took a certain level of crazy to thrive in this world.

Negan never stopped watching Harley for very long. He was enjoying their dinner, sure, but this was also the first chance he was getting to really sit down and try to figure this chick out. She was crazy, he knew that much, and at least _kind_ of his kind of crazy. There was something else there, too, something he hadn't quite figured out yet, but he would. He was _excited_ to.

She went on to cut her own steak, the one bare foot she wasn't sitting on swinging idly to a song that wasn't even playing in her head. "Practice makes perfect," she explained, enjoying his attention just as much as the meal. "An'I got _a lot_ 'a practice under my belt." She ended her sentence with a bite of steak, chewed and swallowed, and lighty pointed at him with the tip of her steak-knife. "How's a suburban little league coach become King of Ruined America with his own damn harem?" Harley asked in a light, almost flirtatious tone- but with a thread of something significant wrapped around it. Something _knowing_.  
  
He was halfway through a bite of steak when she posed her own question, and he grinned around it. As far as he was concerned, she'd only pointed out the obvious, but there was something in her voice that said she knew more. "I'm smart, I get shit done, and I carry the biggest stick," he said, and washed it down with a mouthful of wine. Really, it hadn't been that hard. Gregory should have realized he made a huge fucking mistake when he sent Negan out in charge of his own outpost, expecting it to _s_ _tay_ a Hilltop outpost. Fuck _that_.

Harley's brow twitched upward, pulled by the same invisible string that connected that corner of her mouth. His explanation was the minimal truth, but the truth nonetheless, and it made her happy for now.

"I got a feeling I already know the answer to this one, but I still gotta ask - was there anyone else with you?” Negan asked. “I need to know if there are any assholes wandering around out there looking for you."

She wasn't so delusional to think this dinner was _just_ a twisted blip of fabricated romance; it was an interrogation. But at least it had wine. And he was fun to look at- _really_ fun to look at.

"Maybe once upon a time," Harley hummed with no change in expression. She may as well have been talking about her favorite sofa or car that got left behind with the rest of the world. Fond memories, but gone now. The next thought really brought out her grin; she leaned her chin on one hand propped on the table, her free hand picking pieces of food from her plate- without the fork and knife. "If there _was_ , what would ya do about it?"

Negan seemed to think on that for a moment, _literally_ chewing on it in the form of a big mouthful of potatoes, and hummed for a moment. "Well..." he started, and took a sip from his wine before he continued, "I'd hunt 'em the fuck down, same like I did with you." He shrugged, as if to say, _Simple as that._ It had taken them longer than he would have liked, but they _did_ find her.

And now here she was, sitting in front of him, all spruced up and clean and pretty and all _his_. She'd been gorgeous to start off with, but she lit the fuck up when she was all primped and polished and had a fresh coat of paint.

"Oh." Maybe his answer was simple, but he was such a goddamn _showman_. Harley had been expecting some elaborate story, maybe a few thinly veiled threats in that gunsmoke and metal baritone. Mildly disappointed, but she got over it quickly with another bite of steak.

Negan could see the disappointment in her eyes, and he couldn't help but smirk. Sometimes it was fun to get someone wound up and then not deliver. Plus, this conversation was more about _Harley_ than it was about _him_. He had information to collect.

"What kind of bullshit and trouble were you getting up to _before_ the world went to shit?" he asked, and tilted his head at her. If she had _practice_ , he assumed she didn't just learn how to overtake groups of armed men _after_ everything went downhill. The way she'd moved and jumped around the lot, killing the Dead effortlessly while she flew around, told him she'd been doing it for a _long_ fucking time.

Now they were back to her; that's right- _interrogation_.

"Ya want the long version, or ya wanna keep a little _mystery_ to this story," she asked him with a _teeny_ bit of actual lucidity, popping a small potato in her mouth and staring him in the eyes. Her look resembled the hollow quality of a two-way mirror. Her smile was still there, but it had a cold reminder behind it. Maybe a warning.  
  
She was _not_ from suburbia.

At her question, he raised an eyebrow. He could see the look in her eyes. There was a real _story_ there, maybe a dangerous story, maybe something he didn't want to hear... which was ridiculous, because he wanted to know _everything_. Before he answered, he reached for the bottle of wine on the table and refilled both of their glasses, finishing off the bottle so each of their glasses was _nice_ and full. Then, he picked his up, and sat back in his chair, getting comfy.

"I want every fucking detail," he said, and smiled as he took a sip from his wine. "Pretty _please_ with a cherry on top."

Her eyes flicked to the blood-colored Merlot, grinning onto her latest bite of carrot. Was that a bribe? Or his own reminder... She looked back at Negan, his lips practically kissing his wine, eyeing her like a whole other kind of meal, but also like she was a bomb that needed diffusing. She got that from a lot of men- and some women- but it'd been a while since she contemplated actually _letting_ them.

Well. Letting them _think_ they could.  
  
" _No_ ," she smirked at him, mimicking his sip with her own. She'd seen the smug glint in his eyes earlier. Tit for tat. "I will tell you this, though Pumpkin... My whole life's been spent around people a _fuckload_ more crazy an'more dangerous than anythin' you got around here. _But_. _I like you_." She winked at him, still grinning through perfectly painted peach champagne lips. "So I'll give ya _two_ questions. Anythin' you want." The fingers of her free hand wiggled at him in that 'bring it on' fashion. "What'cha got."

He should've expected that. It should've been _obvious_. But still, when she said it, Negan could help the sting of disappointment and the sigh that accompanied it. She said it so _easily_. Nobody in the Sanctuary said no to his requests, _ever_ , and even though he hadn't taught her as much, he knew she understood it.

He let her get away with it, though, but only because he was too busy wondering if she'd still be grinning when he was fucking her into his mattress later.  
  
"Two _whole_ questions? Wow, I'm fucking spoiled," he said, and chuckled as he shook his head. But he thought about the two questions carefully, sipping some more of his wine. What did he _actually_ care about finding out?  
  
"Okay. _One._ What kinds of convictions do you have under your diamond-studded belt?" Because there was _no way_ she was an innocent woman before all this shit.

Harley made a noise low in the back of her throat; it started as a chuckle, a laugh wrapped around her voice and dragged through hot coals. It grew in intensity and pitch, if not volume, for a solid five seconds while she pulled her other leg up on the chair where she casually, comfortably hugged her knee with the arm that held the wine glass.

Her laugh was like music to Negan's ears. It was piercing, and melodic, and it shivered its way down his spine and straight to his dick. He knew that meant he wasn't going to be happy with the answer, but he almost found himself not caring. _Almost._ He took a long drink from his wine.

"Well, _technically_ none," she finally told him, the laughter still in her eyes, like she was thinking of an old, hilarious joke. "See- ya need a _trial_ ta have convictions, and I never _got_ one'a those. They aren't usually part'a the package in those prisons that don't ' _technically_ ' exist." Harley broke out her air quotes for the occasion.

"But, _you know_ \- the usuals." She looked up and at nothing in particular, remembering the list and counting on her fingers as she went. "First degree murder, mass murder, serial murder, petty larceny, grand larceny, domestic terrorism, treason, maybe a few hundred parking tickets..."

Then she actually answered his question, and he found himself smiling again, something dark and sinful because that was _exactly_ what he wanted to hear. He lowered his glass of wine and licked his lips. She was _delicious_.

"Well, look at _you_ ," he said, and chuckled. Negan's history wasn't _nearly_ that colorful, but she'd already figured that out. "You're a goddamn _professional_." She was just the kind of addition he needed to the Saviors, and just the kind of woman he was _dying_ to make one of his wives.

Harley had another piece of carrot against her grinning lips when it all sank in, and at his pointed comment about being a _professional_ , her eyebrows arched high and her eyes got big to prove the point. Despite the glint of ungrounded electricity in them, it was a lucid moment for her. Manic Harley was just in it for the fun- and for Puddin'. Lucid Harley knew _exactly_ what she was; a weapon, whether she was in J's holster or the darker sides of the US Government.

 _Now_ , she was her own.  
  
"Okay... so... Second question." He squinted at her, and sat forward in his chair, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. "Paint me a picture of what the fuck the last year of your life's been looking like."

"A year ago?" Harley snorted with an animated shrug, then swallowed down a bit more wine. It was warming her blood, thanks to her tolerance being chipped down by the lack of alcohol readily available. "What season is it? Fall? _Almost_ fall... let's see." She made a show of remembering, tapping her carrot on the pad of her lower lip.

"Oh. Kickin' the asses of basically anythin' that came my way. Like _yours_." By 'yours', she meant his men and all the supplies they'd handed to her over the course of a few months. It was a friendly jab designed to stoke the coals she could see in his eyes. She had a feeling he was going to be the _best_ mutual punching bag, but for now, they were still having a lovely conversation, and she didn't want to leave him with blue balls.

She was already figuring out which buttons to press with him, something Negan wasn't sure how to feel about. On the one hand, it was _hot_ , watching her pick him apart so easily, seeing the spark in her eyes every time she knew she'd hit the nail on the head. On the other, she was figuring him out, and he'd so far done a pretty good job keeping some level of _mystery_ about himself.

Still, he fed into it, and his eyes lit up. How could he not? She was _gloating_ about killing his people, with no shame, and no fear, but also without the added air of someone who thought they'd be kicking his ass. She was _exactly_ where she wanted to be, playing him like a damn violin, and he could practically hear her purring about it.  
  
"Nothin' really that exciting- 'till I met you,” she added.

"We haven't even gotten to the fucking exciting part of it yet," he said, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he sat back again. He'd stopped eating his food. It wouldn't satisfy the type of _hunger_ he was feeling. "But tell me - what makes me so fucking _exciting_?" _This_ , he wanted to hear.

Harley _now_ knew she'd always had the arsenal fit for a super-predator; well-above average intelligence with the intellect to critically and creatively problem-solve, a top-notch education, years of experience with the biggest and most dangerous puzzles of the human psyche. Add onto that years of having her own psyche picked apart by Green Haired vultures until there was nothing left but a Stockholm-riddled shell that knew how to kill and find the _fun_ in it? She wasn't just a weapon, but one that'd been  _engineered_ ; a chemical parasite designed to get under the skin of her host, and make it do exactly what she wanted, while keeping it just healthy enough to be unaware it was even happening.

All this lurked under her gaze as she smiled at Negan. Her new _host_. So gracious and deadly himself, trying to figure her out and get his ego stroked at the same time. He was so perfect.  
  
"Well _look_ at you- look'it what you've _done_... Without much more than some ambition and a _killer_ smile, you're able ta build an' _hold on_ to all'a this... I mean Hell, ya caught _me_ , right?" she chimed in with a girlish laugh, which melted into a Devil's Daughter grin. " _You're_ the new American Dream."

Negan grinned at that. _He_ knew how fucking great he was, and how great the things he was doing were, but he liked to hear it. He _especially_ liked to hear it from beautiful women who could beat the shit out of him.

" _That_ just went straight to my fucking dick," he said, and finished off his glass of wine. "Takes a _lot_ fucking more more than just ambition and smiles to get all _this_ , though. You'll see." He added the last part like it was a secret, with a wink and a smirk.

Like _she_ didn't know that. Harley just wrinkled her nose at him, emphasizing _her_ grin the way peeled back lips emphasized that of a wolf.

"Can't _wait_ , Pumpkin-" she encouraged him in a dangerously giddy tone. To some, it may have been ambiguously mocking. She'd let him decide.  
  
"Ya done with this game you're playin' with me?" Harley asked almost right away, then tossed back the rest of her wine. "'Cause there're _funner_ ways of makin' me sing."

Harley didn't know when to stop, something Negan was learning quickly, and learning how much it drove him fucking crazy. Anyone else wouldn't be able to use that tone with him, but here she was, saying whatever the fuck she wanted, and he was letting her get away with it.

" _Done_?" he asked, sounding and looking shocked, before he grinned. "Sunshine, I'm just fucking getting _started_." He relaxed back in his seat a bit more, and smirked, curling one finger at himself in a _come hither_ way. "Get the fuck over here."

Half the fun was feeling him out, and part of _that_ was stretching his personal rubber bands to see which ones could really snap hard. Harley saw the tension in his eyes; the evidence of being rubbed the wrong way with _just_ the right amount of pressure, and _fuck_ , was it a turn-on. She was close, and next time, she'd get closer. She'd pull that band a little harder, just for her personal fucking delight- but only when it was the two of them, alone in his Tower (literally, or otherwise), because the _world_ was his plaything- but he was _hers_.

With that level of personal satisfaction, power-hunger and greed, Harley pushed up from her chair with a genuine grin, not just willing to give him what he wanted, but _wanting_ to. She showed it in her saunter, in the way her tattooed hands pulled at the virginal dress in each step, hiking it just far enough to be out of her way as she straddled his lap. She moved to a primal beat in her head that wrapped her freshly shaved legs around his and held her lip in her teeth. Their dinner conversation had its own level of intense, but _this_ was the sort of intimacy Harley craved. It was much more dangerous.

Negan watched her, the hunger in his eyes growing with every step she took towards him. He didn't know where to look, his eyes going from hers, and the way they _pierced_ into him, down along her body to where she was slowly revealing more and more of the milky white skin of her thighs. Negan was a man who _loved_ women, of all types and shapes and sizes, but _nothing_ turned him the fuck on more than a woman who wanted him as much as he wanted her.

His hands were on her the second she was close enough, landing on her thighs and smoothing their way around to her ass. Up close, Negan could appreciate the contrast between Harley's dark tattoos and the dainty, frilly outfit she chose. He could see some of them through the fabric, and it was all he could do not to just rip her clothes off.  
  
"You wanna hurt me-" she whispered in the air just above his mouth, in a tone that matched the way she moved. " _Own it_."

That really _did_ go straight to his dick, and he made a noise that was halfway between a groan and a growl, because he did _not_ need to be told twice. He leaned into her, catching her mouth in a kiss that he'd been fucking _dying_ to take since she walked in the room. One of his hands gathered in the light fabric of her dress near her ass, while the other slid up along her back, pulling her in closer until it finally rested on the back of her neck. He let it rest there for a moment, firm and strong, before he grabbed a fistful of her hair, and wrenched her head back away from his.

His hands felt like they were carved out of rough wood, and the way he kissed wasn't just a battle, but a bloodthirsty massacre; Harley expected no less, and wanted it no other way. She let him conquer her with a noise of encouragement, at first lost in their mouths, then sharp and _pleased_ when he pulled her head away.

He was smiling, and breathing heavy, keeping her pinned in against his body, looking at the curve of her neck like he was ready to sink his teeth into her.  
  
"Damn fuckin' right I wanna hurt you," he said, and he leaned in, dragging his lips over where her jugular vein pulsed at the side of her neck. "That's what you fucking _want_ , isn't it?" he added in a whisper, his teeth scraping over her skin as he tightened his grip in her hair.

Her arms were still draped languidly over his shoulders, keeping hands that could just as easily snap his neck occupied with each other at a safe distance. Her teeth were together, bared in a wide grin and a hot hiss of approving laughter. His lips left hot trails on her throat that were cooled by his breath and tickled- and scratched- by his beard. Harley braced her bare feet on the floor and ground down on his lap, just to show how much she approved.

"Just as much as I'm gonna _hurt you_ -" she purred back, her voice tightening in time with the fist in her hair. "I'm just lettin' you go first."

Negan groaned and rolled his hips up against hers, burying the noise against the side of her neck, along with his teeth. He bit down _hard_ , and held for a moment, before he let up, letting his lips drag against her skin as he pulled his mouth away.

"Oh, you're fuckin' _lettin'_ me?" he growled, and chuckled, dark and rough, and switched his grip from his hair to the back of her neck, keeping it gripped tightly in his hand so she was looking straight at him. The grip he had around her waist was equally as tight, his fingertips digging into her hipbone.

His growl had the same endorphin effect as his grip; ten fingers digging graves in the flesh, possibly enough to bruise, all pressing _the right_ buttons. She caught a moan in her throat from his teeth. She could still feel their marks when he eased him, putting their brows together. Look at those _eyes_ , black and dangerous as volcanic glass in this dim light. Harley couldn't contain her grin; her tongue slipped between her teeth and wet the corner.

"I think I need to teach you a fucking lesson tonight," he said, before he kissed her again, hot and _possessive_ , the same way he was holding onto her. When he pulled back, he breathed against her lips for a moment, before he loosened his grip on her and smirked. "Get the fuck up," he murmured, sliding his hand down from her neck to her thigh. "And turn that pretty ass my way."

A man's kiss was more personally revealing than his words ever were, and _that_ was a fucking work of art. It left her lips flushed and just a little bit swollen, parted with breath and anticipation. Then he gave his order, and she knew right then and there.

She was _keeping him_.  
  
Harley hummed somewhere deep and low, the purr of a jungle cat as she slowly pushed off his lap, letting her arms slide down from his shoulders, then abruptly caught his chin and jaw with one hand. Not _quite_ hard enough to bruise, but she held his head still for those two significant heartbeats, and all but growled against his lips; "Yes _sir_..." She slid off him, but didn't just turn around. She walked away from his little dinner throne, sliding her prim little cardigan off her shoulders and down to her hands.

The way Harley grabbed him set something off in him. She wanted to sink her nails into him just as much as he wanted to do it to her, he knew. Hell, she'd said as much. He could tell it was there, bubbling just under the surface, waiting to lash out and dig in when she got the chance, but for tonight, she was his. He'd _gladly_ let her walk on him in stiletto heels any other night.

She ended up at the edge of the massive four-poster bed in the room, one knee slid onto the mattress. Harley watched him over her shoulder as she twisted both hands in the arms of the sweater, tighter each circle, closer together- making sure he saw it in the oily candle light; a softer pair of handcuffs than she'd been wearing earlier that day. He wanted a power-move; she gave him one- but he had to come get it.

He watched her saunter away from him, and the way he rose out of his chair was like magnetism, trailing after her. He stopped when she started towards the bed, and took a _long_ look at the view she gave him. Then he saw the handcuffs she was making for herself, a grin spread over his lips, slow and satisfied.

"Look at you," he practically crooned, as he started forward, his eyes tracing over the lines of her body, taking in every tattoo that contrasted as starkly against the frilly, _innocent_ little dress she was wearing as her masochistic personality. He approached her slowly, stalking her like prey, _eyeing_ her like something he was going to devour.  
  
With one palm in between her shoulder blades, Negan gave one _push_ and shoved Harley so she fell forward on the bed, leaning over her with one hand on her bound wrists, and the other with a firm grip on her ass underneath the lacy, hardly-even-fucking-underwear boyshorts she was wearing, his nails digging into her skin.  
  
"I'm gonna fucking spank you," he growled, his lips right next to her ear, as he rolled his hips forward, grinding his erection against the back of her thigh with a low groan. "Once for every fucking one of my fucking people you _killed_ ," he said, tightening his grip on her wrists with an uncomfortable _twist_. "And _you're_ gonna count every single _fucking_ one." He twisted his hand around, tugging her underwear down and pushing it down towards her knees.

"Is _that all_ -?" Harley's voice may have been slightly muffled by her cheek being pressed into the comforter, or by bits of her hair that fell across the other half it- also squeaked tight from the strain in her _still_ extremely-fucking-sore shoulders when he twisted like that... but she was _smiling_. She even gave him the thrill of a _little_ resistance, not-so-lightly pulling against his grip- as if she _wanted_ out of it, but just couldn't get away.

Just for that, Negan would make sure he did more next time, because there would _definitely_ fucking be a next time, but this time, he'd be fucking pushing it at twenty-one. It was already hard enough not to just fuck her into the mattress, but he wouldn't, because she was right. He wanted to _hurt_ her. And she _wanted_ it.

Of course, it ended with her hot, gravelly, slightly _unhinged_ chuckle; she flexed her legs and flushed her now-naked haunches against him; _begging for it_. "Make me _feel it_ -" she growled in her laugh.

Negan let his fingers trail lightly up the back of her right leg, tracing feather-light from her knee, up along her thigh and the curve of her ass. He pulled up the end of the flimsy little dress along with it, pushing it up past her lower back. Rough, callused fingers smoothed down back along her ass again, rubbing the soft, smooth skin for a moment.

The way he teased her skin with almost gentle caresses left goosebumps in his wake; something Harley enjoyed just as much as the whole fucking package. Even though she couldn't see him, the dangerous aura that came off Negan was palpable. That alone had her biting her bottom lip.

Then he pulled his hand back, _cracked his knuckles_ , and brought his hand down, _hard_ , hard enough to fucking _bruise_ , right on her ass cheek. His hand stung from the impact, and the her skin turned a hot, angry red that made Negan grin, and laugh. "You're not gonna be able to sit at fucking _all_ tomorrow." He sounded absolutely _delighted_ at the prospect.

He struck; her eyes shut and her whole body tensed like electric shock- and Harley knew _exactly_ what that felt like.

" _Nnn_..One!" she ground out through a perfectly entertained laugh.

"Good _girl_ ," Negan practically purred. Harley's laugh sent chills down his spine. He let go of her wrists, and moved her hair away from her face and neck so he could lean down and kissed her shoulder, smirking against her skin.

As much as she _c_ _ould_ , Harley returned the softer affection in the form of his lips on her shoulder; it rolled toward him, lightly drawing her cheek on his hand when he touched it: almost pure reflex. There was no thought to it at all.

He let his fingers linger on her hot skin for a moment before he pulled his hand back again. He brought it down again, this time on the other side, but just as hard as the first. The slap sounded like a whip getting cracked, and _that_ just put a whole new fucking picture in his mind. That could wait.  
  
The next three landed on the first side again, in rapid succession, each one harder than the one before it. There was no mercy in it; every strike landed with conviction, because he wanted it to fucking _hurt_.

The next four strikes were the same; her body locked, her breath stopped, but she didn't actually let herself gasp until the fourth. Her skin felt like it was _dangerously_ close to a fire, and it lit her blood like kerosene, and put the deep smoke of _lust_ in her voice when she counted out up to Five. Her breaths were wrapped in it as well, as she purred out for _more_.

It would be a fucking _miracle_ when he made it to twenty-one, with the way Harley was squirming underneath him, the way he could feel the _jolt_ through her every time his hand made contact. He gathered a fistful of her hair and pulled her head to the side, pressing his lips up against the shell of her ear.

"I bet you'd fucking beg me to keep going if I stopped right now," he murmured, and there was a burn to his voice like whiskey, dark and heavy. Before she could respond or react, he hit her two more times, bringing each a little further down, across the tops of both of her thighs.

His breath felt hot as the skin he'd made red, and still shot a flash of goosebumps down her spine, but it was his voice that she was _really_ hanging on to. Something about it, mixed with the two sharp flashes of pain did _dangerous_ things to Harley's insides.

"You know how fucking hard it is not to just stop and fuck that pretty little pussy of yours?" He bit at her earlobe, sucking it between his teeth for a moment. As if to prove his point, he brought his hand from her ass to between her legs, dragging the point of his middle finger in a slow line from her clit, through the slick folds of her lips, and _moaned._ "Oh, _fuck_ , yeah!" He punctuated the _fuck_ with a hard _smack_ , straight down on the curve of her ass.

She sucked air in through her teeth; an unstable hiss that growled off in a moan. He had her wet and quivering _before_ going to feel for himself, but she still turned her hips up on flexed toes just to get more of that touch. The smack they earned instead pulled a short cry from her open lips, impossible to distinguish between agony and orgasm.

"What-" Harley panted afterward, her eyes closed for a few moments longer, but her grin was still firmly in place. "Your hand gettin' tired? Was'at eight or nine?"

Even when he was in control, Harley was still pushing all of the right buttons, getting him to do whatever she wanted him to. He groaned against her ear, rocking his hips forward against hers _hard_ when she wiggled them. 

"You're supposed to be fucking _paying attention_ ," Negan responded, wrenching her head back further as he dragged his nails across the red, painful skin on her ass. "That was eight." Then he pulled his hand back, and brought two more down, one on each side, matching in intensity to the first two.

Harley _was_ paying attention. Every breath, every sound he made, every chuckle, and every time he tensed; even if she couldn't see it, she was feeling him out like Brail, memorizing _every. single. Reaction._ She gasped loudly when he pulled her hair, even cried out when he hit her, but every single noise she made was rolled in the broken glass of her _laughter_.

Her bound hands pinned between them still managed to twist themselves in his shirt, pulling him down while she wiggled her hips, taunting him like a bull with a red (and throbbing) piece of silk. " _C'mon_ , baby-" Harley gritted out a dark, demanding growl. " _Own it_ -!"

She wanted him to _own it_? Fine.  
  
"Own _it_?" he hissed, and chuckled low in his throat. "I fucking own _you._ " Breathing hot and heavy at her neck, Negan brought one hand down to undo his belt, and let go of her hair as he took half a step back and stood up straight. He folded the belt in half, and gave it a firm _snap_ , before dragging it lightly up along the skin of her thigh.

 _I own_ _ **you**_. Her eyes opened, still dagger-sharp in spite of the way her skin throbbed and burned with her heightened pulse- maybe _because_ of it, she was never sure. He'd strummed a certain chord she felt vibrate poisonously in her core. It curled her fingertips into the tight cotton around them, biting down like teeth on leather. She could get out of her improvised bonds easily- but she had other plans.

"You better count every fucking one of these," he said, his voice low and warning, as he tapped the leather lightly against her skin.

Now that his body wasn't pinning her down, Harley deepened the bend in her spine, twisting one shoulder back so she could look him right in the eyes. Her hair was mussed- long pieces of bone-blonde cutting across her face, clinging to a wide lipped smile that could only be described as _feral_. She could just as happily fuck him into a coma as she would tear out his throat with her bare hands.  
  
"Or _what_." The end of _what_ ended in a hard T through her bared teeth. It was a dare; a crossroads question whose wrong answer _might_ lead to bloodshed.

Negan could see the bloodlust in her eyes, and it made his heart pound. That was almost more exciting than the position he already had her in. _Almost._ He could tell she'd flip them around easily if she wanted to. She'd fight back harder, hell, maybe she'd even win a fight against him. But she was _choosing_ not to.

"Or I'll smack that pretty-ass smile right off your fucking face," he said, and tightened his grip on his belt. He always said how much he _didn't like to hit women_ , and that was true. He didn't like to hit women who didn't _want_ to be hit. Women who flinched when he looked at them, women who openly weeped when he even raised a hand in their direction.  
  
This was different. Harley was asking for it, and he was _more_ than happy to give it to her.  
  
In one swift motion, he struck her across both ass cheeks, leaving a line that turned stark white for a second before turning a cherry red that made Negan's blood burn. "What fucking number was that?"

Oh, he'll smack the smile off her face? _Not likely_ , said the cold-blooded cackle that bubbled up from that sharp-toothed grin, low at first. She didn't put her face back in the mattress, either; Harley _watched him_ pull his hand back, then down again.

The _snap_ of heavy leather on abused skin sent lightning through her body, tightening her shoulders with the rigidity of wire; her breath hitched hard, flaring her nostrils, but nothing broke her eye-contact. She'd stare him down for every single one.  
  
"Ten more," she growled low and hot as the skin of her ass to the touch.

Negan's eyes met Harley's and stayed there, locked in: this was a _challenge_. She was pushing his buttons, and she did it without hesitation or fear, just unshakeable confidence and a stare that had him fixated on her.

Spurred on by his own impatience, and wanting to crack that fucking smile, the last ten strikes came one after the other. There was a breath's pause in between each one, just long enough to wait for her to say the number, before the next one came. Each strike was harder than the last, leaving angry red welts on her skin. His eyes stayed fixed on hers, _daring_ her to look anywhere else.

Each strike, Harley counted down; each one taking a little more out of her voice. Her breaths were hard in her chest, gasped in, sometimes cried out, twisted with more pain than pleasure especially toward the end. Her eyes involuntarily watered, spilling very faint mascara marks down her flushed cheeks, and by the time she shuddered out the number _one_ , her backside from the bell curve of her hips to the tops of her thighs were tiger-stripped, already bruising, some streaked with thin ribbons of blood.

But she never looked away, and she never lost her grin- because he was _so fucking fun_ to watch.

Harley took every single strike without breaking eye contact, something which only got _hotter_ when the tears started sliding down her cheeks. She wasn't crying, he knew that, but she was in _pain_. Her voice betrayed her, cracking and shaking as she gasped for breath and from the stinging, _burning_ of leather meeting skin over and over again.

But she'd taken it, every hit, without wavering, without pulling away. She'd done _exactly_ what he'd wanted her to, and even though she was in pain, she still fucking _wanted_ him, and that drove him _wild_.  
  
By the time he was done, he was breathing heavily, watching her with eyes that burned like fire. He had his left hand curled into the back of her dress, and his right hand gripped his belt firmly. It was like he was wound up, ready to fucking burst any second, and he was. He was ready to fucking _devour_ her.  
  
Her body screamed at her, quivering deep and muscular, beaded with sweat that made that tiny dress cling as she _slowly_ rolled onto her back, giving him time to move his hand, though she kept his gaze locked in with her own. In the process, she lost the scrap of underwear on the floor, and unwrapped her hands from the cardigan, freeing them to glide feather-light and trembling up along Negan's arms- passing the belt- she liked the image of him holding it, to hook on the collar of his t-shirt- softly pulling him down while pulling herself up. The near-homicidal edge to her gaze had changed- she didn't want his blood anymore, but she wanted something _else_ just as bad. Everything about it screamed _My Turn_.  
  
"You win, Pumpkin-" she cooed shakily on his lips, breathy and still in _tremendous_ pain, and still loving every bit of it. From his shirt, her hands caressed over his bearded jaw and into his hair, lightly scraping nails, still pulling him down. "I'm all _yours_ \- now...make it _all better_..." Her legs snaked around the back of his, heels pressing insistently into the back of his knees to get them to bend- she considered kicking them out, but she wanted him to do this on his own. -with a _little_ help from her hands, guiding his head between her legs with one last melted-honey word on her shaken voice uttered by his ear: " _Please_."

Every part of her was shaking when she touched him, and so soft and light that it almost took Negan by surprise. He seemed to practically melt into it, letting himself be pulled in willingly. The belt felt to he floor, forgotten about when she turned around, one of his arms curling around her back, the other coming to rest on her hip.

He was smiling when she started nudging him down, and he lifted her up further onto the bed, shifting up onto it with her. Down he went, though, despite the _want_ and _need_ thrumming through his veins, and the rock hard erection straining in his jeans. She'd taken her punishment like a fucking _champ_ , and now he'd take care of her.  
  
"Just lay back, Sunshine," he practically purred, dragging his lips down along her neck, pausing at her clavicle. "I'm gonna take _good_ fucking care of you."  
  
He moved slowly down along her body, trailing with kisses and nips and flicks of his tongue along her skin. Everything about it was gentle, but passionate, and _hungry_. He kissed her like he was starving for it, pushed her dress up like he craved more of her warmth against his hands and his mouth. Finally, settled between her legs, he pressed soft, delicate kisses to the insides of her thighs, his hand curling around her leg as he nuzzled his face against it for a moment, breathing in deeply with his eyes closed.  
  
Then he opened his eyes again, and looked back up at her with a smirk. Shifting down low, and getting comfortable, pressed slow, languid kisses to the wet folds of her sex, humming deep in his chest as his hands smoothed their way from the outsides of her thighs to her hips, holding them in a grip that was firm and possessive. He took his time, even now, _teasing_ her into it, with slow strokes of his tongue, practiced flicks and twirls that said exactly how much he fucking _loved_ having his face buried in a woman's pussy.

Harley's skin was hypersensitive, not just where it was welted and bruised, but _everywhere_ , every nerve ending lit, some frayed and sparking like live wires, all of it craving the touches and kisses he now painted it with. His throaty baritone was the _best_ aphrodisiac, now more than ever, because Harley wanted to _let go_. No matter how much she'd grown in the months on her own, how 'recovered' she considered herself from the destructive addictions of her past, the deepest-rooted demons in her psyche still pulled a few levers. She'd willingly let him, _encouraged_ him, to hurt her- **badly** \- now she was in full-surrender.

At least, for a little while.  
  
She closed her eyes, a softer, less demented smile on her flushed lips as she slowly dropped herself back to the soft mattress, happily letting her legs fall apart for him the further down he kissed, so by the time his breath tickled her inflamed skin, she was already half-way to coming. The wooden grip on her hips sent sparks of reminding-pain through her, keeping her a little more grounded, but the way he licked and probed and _throbbed_ with that tongue had her gasping and moaning within _no time_  
  
Harley gripped at the bedding, then at her own dress as he worked her like an instrument. She pulled at the front line of dainty buttons, wanting it _gone_ \- she managed to undo a few, but pulled the rest of them off.  
  
"Don't stop- _please-_ f-fuck... _don'tstop_ -!" Her legs twitched further apart as her still-painful hips rolled with his rhythm.

Stopping was the absolute _last_ thing on Negan's mind. No, he was far too wrapped up in all of the sounds Harley was making, the way she writhed and twitched underneath him. The way she tasted made him moan, and he was _so_ ready to fuck her until she couldn't even think enough to form a fucking sentence.

But right now, he'd give her this. One of his hands left her hip, slipping between her legs. He rubbed his middle and ring finger lightly against her entrance for a moment, dragging them through the wetness dripping from her cunt, before he pushed them inside of hr. It was only his fingers, but he groaned when he wet heat enveloped them, and pushed them _deep_ inside of her.  
  
His tongue licked and traced at her clit with firm strokes, while he fucked her with his fingers, curling them and pressing them in deep, each movement trying to coax her to orgasm, pushing her that much closer and closer.

His fucking fingers were her undoing. Their slick friction combined with the hot, agonizingly perfect back-and-forth of his tongue pulled the small of her back away from the bed, and a strangled, desperate moan from her open lips. It was the first time since dinner that she _wasn't_ grinning- her expression lost in the desperate ache of pleasure the way _most_ people looked in pain.

Her head tipped back as she writhed, hands palming her own bared breasts, rolling erect, pink, and _pierced_ nipples hard before they slid down her quivering belly, past the ornate _Lucky You_ tattoo and under her own thighs, holding them apart for him- opening herself to his full mercy. She came hard and _loud_ , quaking and gasping, holding her breath so it would _last longer_ before it burned in her chest and hit her all over again, in wave after powerful wave.

Negan pushed her over every peak of her orgasm, encouraged by her moaning and _shaking_. He didn't stop, not for a second, dragging it out second after second, feeling her fall apart underneath his hands every moment he kept going.

When she was _finally_ finished, he tilted his head back slowly, resting it on her thigh and watching her through lust-filled eyes. He was breathing heavily, licking her taste from his lips, his fingers curling and uncurling against her thigh. He took her in, eyes tracing over every inch of her flushed body, from her hip bones to her nipples to her face, dazed and relaxed and, just for the moment, without the manic energy it _usually_ held.

She fell back, boneless, panting like she'd run a marathon. The white-hot static that enveloped her vision began to fade, replaced slowly by the bruises and fire just under her skin, left by their _foreplay_. In those soft moments while she was lost in a sea of nothing but _good feeling_ Negan was witness to the woman she never got a chance to be. Harley didn't mind the pain- she even actively sought it out, because her whole _world_ was built upon it. She'd been baptized by it, drowned by it, twisted and dragged behind it until it was literally the only state of existence she understood.

  
But in the high left by orgasm, if only for a few precious heartbeats, she was soft. Vulnerable, and _happy_.

Negan pulled himself up along her body, his lips leaving a kiss to one of her hip bones, then her navel, the center of her ribcage, her sternum, and her neck, before he finally kissed her on the lips. His pulse was pounding in his ears, and his head was clouded with a desperate _want_ that threatened to take over everything else, but for now, he reveled in the change in her. It was like a switch had been flipped, because _this_ was something he craved just as much as the punishment. The softness, the affection - and he'd gladly give her more of it - but there were more pressing matters at hand, _literally_ pressing uncomfortably at the front of his jeans, and grinding almost absent-mindedly against her leg.

"I'm not fucking done with you yet, Sunshine," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, though it had lost the rough, dangerous edge it had before. He wanted her just as badly, just as _desperately_. One of his arms looped around her shoulders, so her head could rest on his bicep, and the other rested near her hip, his thumb rubbing lazy circles into her hip bone.

But he was waiting, just for the moment, letting her soak in the bliss before he ravaged her all over again.

Her eyes were still a little glassed over when they focused on his face. A hint of a smile touched her face as she reached for it, affectionately drawing her thumb over Negan's cheek, then jaw. She took in his face with different eyes than she'd ever looked at him before, but though the bliss was lingering, it was only temporary.

"What'er ya waitin' for?" she whispered, more _teasing_ than taunting; the general viciousness hadn't returned to her eyes or voice just yet. She even let her teeth scrape her bottom lip in her smile, and her hand drift down his neck, over his chest and trim, well muscled abdomen, to the button of his jeans, where it made quick work of the button. "You're wearin' _way_ too much..."

Negan found himself chuckling at her comment, and dropped his head to kiss her lips, humming against them for a moment. "You are _so_ fucking right," he said. Somehow, he'd managed to get to this point fully clothed, so wrapped up in _Harley_ that nothing else mattered.

His white t-shirt was off in a second, flung off to some far corner of the room, and by the time that was gone, he was working on his jeans and briefs. His jeans were forgotten about soon enough, and he settled himself between her legs, hard cock resting against her thigh, and even just that amount of contact drew a low moan from him.

The skin to skin contact almost kicked like a drug; the instant he crashed back into her, Harley's hands were all over him, starting with his shoulders, up the sides of his neck and into his thick, _black_ hair. She kissed his moan, _thirsty_ for the vibration, for that voice wrapped in smoke and pleasure to be as close and loud as possible. The fires were still burning, and the sound he made fanned them high and hot.

No more words were needed; she'd played her games and he'd played his- their dangerous posturing had been settled- for a while- leaving Harley with the pure _want_ she had for this dangerous man that balanced her out _so fucking well_. She flexed her hips and drew her thighs back on his, lining them up.

Negan's breath came hot and heavy against her lips as he shifted his hips, reaching down with one hand and lining his erection up with her entrance, before he pushed forward in one long, slow, smooth motion, the breath catching in his throat and his hand gripping _tight_ at the sheets underneath them, because holy _fuck_. No matter how many times Negan fucked _any_ of his wives on _any_ given day, every fucking time felt like he'd been waiting _years_ for it, especially now, with Harley. Harley was so unlike any of the women he'd been with since the end of the world that fucking her felt like he was conquering something.

" _Fuck_ , Harley," he groaned, and he rested with his hips against hers for a moment, _only_ a moment, before he pulled them back again. His rhythm was slow, but steady, and he pushed in _deep_ , savoring every fucking moment of it. There was desperation at the edge of his passion, and he fucked her like he needed it, every snap of his hips, and every drag of her nails, because it just felt so fucking _good_.

His weight and the forward motion of his thrust dragged raw and bruised skin into the bedding, drawing a staggered breath in through her lips, open against Negan's mouth. It had a thread of her voice wrapped tight around it; another reminder of pain, followed by another grin.

Her heels dug into the back of his hips, using the leverage to _drag_ hers down every time he pulled back between thrusts. Each time it hurt. Each time she sucked in air, and each time it felt _even better_.  
  
"'Member when we first met-" she groaned close to his ear, her voice ground in lust and growing mania, painting the picture for him of yesterday. "Ya had me on my knees... in cuffs..." Harley nipped at his skin, breathing hot against it in her grin. "Ya wanted me right then an'there- didn'cha... right in front'a _everyone_..."

 _When we first met..._ Like it was so long ago. It wasn't even forty-eight hours now, and Negan remembered every second of it. Looking at her and trying to figure out how the fuck _that_ had killed twenty-one of his men without so much as a fucking scratch on her. Kneeling on the ground in front of him, grinning as much as she could even with duct tape slapped over her mouth and guns pointing at her from ever direction.

"Fucking _duh_ ," was all he responded with, moaning and biting at her shoulder. It was obvious, even then, to just about anyone who knew him who'd been watching him. He'd wanted her from the second they pushed her out of the back of the truck.

His words and his bite made her grit her teeth, a throaty chuckle behind them. Harley gripped his hands tight, thoroughly enjoying the way he jumped straight to gallop because of what she'd said. Of course, the image was in her head, too- though with a few artistic changes, shifted from a memory to a projection of some fantasy of them fucking with an audience of his _minions_.

Just thinking about him made him move faster, with more urgency, which was probably _exactly_ what she fucking wanted. His hands found hers, and laced his fingers between hers to grip them tight, holding them above her hands, as he thrusted faster. Every stroke made his breath catch, and every time his hips met hers, he _pushed_ forward, dragging her painful skin against the sheets.

What should have just been mild rugburn felt like fucking acid the more he ground her down, and the pictures in her head gave Harley a new idea. Without warning, her legs locked around his, one pulling in sharp as the other kicked them over- rolling Negan to his back, pinned by their still connected hands and hips. She grinned down at him, stretched out over his body, not missing a beat keeping up with his excited rhythm.

If Negan hadn't been caught off guard, he might have stopped Harley from flipping them over. _Maybe._ But the truth was, laying on his back, looking up at Harley and taking all of her in again, this was _exactly_ where he wanted to be right now. Underneath a woman who could (and would) _literally_ kill him if she wanted to while she fucked the _Hell_ out of him.

"Oh, _fuck_ , yeah," he groaned, and he anchored his feet down on the mattress so he had more leverage to bring his hips up against Harley's. He let his head fall back against the pillows, his breathing coming in low half-groans against her mouth. " _Fuck_ , just- _juuust_ like that, fuck-" Then, seeing her grin again, he managed the start of a laugh. "Yeah, you- you fucking _love_ this, don't you?"

She kept her pace deep and rough, making sure he felt _every fucking inch_ slid inside her from tip to hilt. Long pieces of her hair twitched down onto his shoulders and cheeks as she rode him _hard_. She could very well have gotten the same high from taking skin off him in strips with her nails, but _this_ had a different purpose. The way his breath caught tangled in his throat, the closer and closer he got to losing _everything_ in his head except for how good she made him feel... This was Harley staking her claim. He was _hers_.

She answered him with a growly, throaty giggle. Then quickened her pace.  
  
"Show me that ' _I wanna cum_ ' face-" she crooned in demand, interrupted by her shaken breaths on his open mouth. "I wanna _hear you_..."

Negan let out a low, deep moan, his eyes shut for a second, and any hope of a response had left his head completely. He couldn't think straight, or about _anything_ except for Harley on top of him, riding him hard and fast and fucking the words right out of him.

He opened his eyes again at her demand, eyes locked on hers as he let out a groan of _want_ and his hands squeezed hers more tightly. Her yes were like hot pokers, burning right into him, and he stared back with the same intensity, the same _fire_. " _Fuck_ , yeah... yeah, I'm gonna... I'm gonna-"  
  
And that was it; he growled out a moan as he came, his eyes screwing shut as his face contorted in pleasure. _Every_ thought left his mind except for how fucking _delicious_ every roll of Harley's hips were, how every single one of his nerve endings was on fire, every thought surrounded in _this_. He was left laying, breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes closed, all of his muscles like jello and just too fucking happy about it.  
  
She. Was. _Perfect._

That show _alone_ was well worth the skin he'd bruised and torn open- all of which was a hot footnote somewhere in Harley's mind, for now. Some time between this moment and one in the very near future when she passed out, she'd kill that fire with at least half of that bottle of Scotch waiting for them back at the table, but right now she rode him through the hard hit of his orgasm, until she felt his hands lax and his body shudder, warm and spent.  
  
Her chuckle was _pleased_ and lust-drunk, purred deep in her throat as she dropped her torso against his- damp skin sticking to damp skin- tracing his jaw with light licks and nips to his neck, then down to where it met his shoulder, she sank her teeth in _hard_ , not quite enough to break the skin, but the mark would be there for a week, maybe more. Dark and _affectionate_ , like the way she dragged her tongue over it and whispered, " _Good boy_." Only then did she let his hands go, teasing his arms with her nails on the way down.

Negan hummed as her lips trailed over his skin, enjoying it somewhere in the sex-filled haze of his mind. Then her teeth cut through it like a knife, and he let out a short yell as his eyes snapped open, mostly in surprise, that ended in a breath hissed between his teeth.

"Bitch," he grumbled, and reached down, giving her ass a smack, feather-light compared to how hard he'd been hitting her before, but with how painful it already was, it would be enough. Then he wrapped his arms around her middle, and let his eyes close again. "Holy _shit_ , I'm fucking spent." If Harley hadn't bitten him so hard, he'd probably still be having trouble putting words together. As it was, his brain was only going half speed.

His smack clenched every muscle in Harley's body, including those that still sheathed his cock, even if it was spent. She hissed like he did, one hand _reflexively_ twisted in his hair. It released as the sharp heat faded, changing her touch from damaging to affectionate. Even soft. 

After a few moments, he hummed, rubbing his hands up along to her shoulder blades, before coming to rest around her waists again. He blinked his eyes open, looking up at her with a lazy, satisfied smile. "You want some lotion for that fine ass?"

She rested her brow on his for a second, chuckling in her throat behind an ever-present grin, then sat up on her knees, letting him slip out of her while she shifted to lay on her stomach at his side.

"I'd rather have that Scotch," she purred into the armful of pillows she was cuddling into, getting comfortable. One eye glinted at him from over her tattooed arm and post-fuck hair, sharp, but tired, and right over a cheek fluffed by her satisfied smirk.

A choked noise made its way up from Negan's throat as Harley tightened around his too-sensitive member, and chuckled when she grabbed onto his hair. It was just non-stop with her. He hummed as she slid off onto the bed, and reached over to push Harley's hair back away from her face.

"I fucking _love_ the way you think," he said, and stretched slowly, letting out a low groan as several joints popped. He rolled over and pushed himself slowly up off of the bed, going to grab the bottle of Scotch, as well as two glasses, from the table.

Turning back to the bed, he had to pause, and smiled for a second, a low, happy chuckle rumbling in his chest. "God _damn_ , I wish I had a fucking camera right now. You are _so_ fucking gorgeous." He came back to sit on the bed again, and poured each of them a healthy glass, handing Harley's over to her.

Harley's smirk deepened  _considerably_  when he'd said that, mulling over the lazy words that appeared in her head in response. She didn't say anything, deciding to let it go in the spirit of placated exhaustion, and the promise of dreamless hours of sleep, thanks to the Scotch. She'd closed her eyes when she felt his weight leave the mattress, and though his praise swum around in her head like a pleasant drug, she was already starting to drift by the time he came back.

With... a _glass_. Her voice wrapped around a breathy chortle, Harley propped herself up on an elbow and accepted it, then tossed _all_ of it back with two thick swallows. It barely even touched her tongue.

Negan was a sip into his own glass when Harley's came back in his direction, and he chuckled. He refilled her glass, and took another drink from his own. The sex would be enough to knock him out as soon as his head hit the pillow, and with how much _she_ was drinking, he could go easy on it for now. Regardless of the position of power he was in, Scotch was hard to come by, and he'd only _just_ gotten the new crate of it.

"I dunno about you, Pumpkin," she hummed sleepily, laying a bit on her side as the empty glass tapped the bottle he held for a refill. "But I'ma bite the nose off'a anyone that tries ta wake me up before noon tomorrow..." Bubbly and sweetly tired as her tone was, Harley's eyes belied exactly how serious she was.  
  
"Don't you worry your fuckin' pretty little head off, Sunshine," he said, and reached out to stroke an affectionate hand through Harley's hair. "Nobody fucking touches that doorknob in the morning until I come out or I need to fucking kill someone." Because when he was woken up before he wanted to be, the _only_ thing he wanted to do was kill someone.  
  
Half-finished glass in hand, Negan stood up from the bed and went around the room to turn off the various lamps, until the only one left on was one on the nightstand. Satisfied, he came back to the bed again, this time making himself comfortable, propping himself up against a few pillows with the blankets over his lap.  
  
"I have a _very_ fucking important question for you," Negan said, and from the look on his face, he was _deadly serious_ , squinting at her. "Do you snore?" He managed to hold the straight face for a few moments before it cracked into a grin, and he hid it with a sip of Scotch while squinting at her from over the rim of the glass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGAIN, this wouldn't be possible without SurrogateSongs, writer, goddess, and all-around amazing person. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> So AGAIN, a huuuge thank you to my co-author SurrogateSongs, without whom this wouldn't have ever happened, and who helped me bring my Negan voice to life in the first place. 
> 
> This is the first thing I've published on here, and I hope to publish more in the future! If you want to get a hold of me elsewhere, please feel free to follow me on tumblr, @bidyourcaresgoodbye
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading! <3


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